Don't Know Why
by alisonburnis
Summary: Post-ep for fourth season finale. This time is the same. Except they’ve come such a long way. Such a long way, that they're the same again. 'Round the loop, and he almost smiles.


**Disclaimer:** A formality.

I have fortunately finished school for the year, and am now able to unleash this idea that's been buzzing in my mind since the finale. It's a post-ep of sorts, for the fourth season finale.

Feedback would be genuinely appreciated. Enjoy!

Don't Know Why

Foreman is not surprised that they find him at the bar. It's where they go, it's where they've always gone, and it's where they'll continue to go, forever. _Forever and ee-ternity_, he can hear the voice of some old woman in some kids' movie say – a movie that one of his friend's kids was watching. Last time that he went to visit one of his old friends. He hasn't been back. Christmas cards he can deal with. Loud houses that reminded him of where he had to be come Monday, he cannot.

They sit, smiling in that way that they have – Chase flashing a set of perfect teeth and a current of sadness, Cameron close-lipped and her eyes caring. He has to grin when he sees them. They are the friends he never liked, but they're familiar faces. They're rounded to him; they've all been battered in the turbulence of House and all edges removed. Or maybe not. Maybe they're sharper.

"Hey," Chase says. "Do you mind?"

Foreman moves his feet so they can get in. "Have a seat."

-

Chase thinks that Foreman looks worn. Exhausted to a point that Chase didn't know existed, but has seen now and never wants to feel. Foreman looks destroyed. "Are you alright?" The words fly out of his mouth. _Have any of us been alright in a while?_ Chase's lips twists, a smile or a grimace, he's not sure. Cameron glances at him. Her brow is creased. "I know," she mouths, and he wonders what unspoken message he's given to her. He wonders if he'll ever figure it out.

Foreman shrugs. "It's midnight," he says, "and apparently I'm getting drunk with you two tonight."

"Foreman," Cameron begins and stops. "Okay."

Chase looks at them. "If we're going to get drunk, we need drinks."

Foreman raises his glass. "Already there."

"I can see that," Chase mumbles.

They've done this a million times before, with a million other patients. Patients who lived. The rare few that died, under House's care. They went out for dinner, breakfast, lunch, whenever to get away from the hours of testing and worrying and torment. To heal themselves.

He realizes that this time is the first they've been out like this, together, since Foreman came back to Princeton-Plainsborough. The last time was just after Foreman put in his resignation, Chase remembers, because they were all silent. They didn't make their usual jokes about "next time," and there was too much that they could no longer say. Cameron would barely talk to him, he remembers that too. So it was uncomfortable and quiet, and they all left much the same way.

This time is the same. Except they've come such a long way. Such a long way, that they're the same again. _'Round the loop_, and he almost smiles.

-

Cameron twists a strand of loose hair. She nurses her drink – club soda; someone needs to make sure they get home.

They knew her. Not well, but they knew her. A little. Cameron's fuzzy memories supply her with a tall blonde woman asking for help on a case. Which blurs later with images of Amber dropping Wilson off at work, etc. She peers at Foreman, wondering what he's thinking.

_Are you alright?_ She wants to ask, knowing that Chase has already, knowing that he's not, knowing that he'll never admit it.

"Can you imagine us here, twenty years from now?" Foreman asks.

"Yeah," Chase replies. "Will you have a cane, Foreman?"

Foreman laughs. "I hope not."

"I'll be drinking something stronger if I'm here with you twenty years from now," Cameron says.

"The ER's made you cruel, Cameron," Foreman tells her.

"I was cruel when I got there," she says.

And there it is: three years of work, that's what she has to show for it. She's a little meaner, a little harsher. Is it a good thing? Or is it awful?

Chase meets her eyes. _House_. "How many patients did he lose this year?" she asks.

Foreman shrugs. "More than he should have." His façade falls; he's upset about it. The days are harder on him than they used to be.

_That's one of the first emotions he's showed in a while_, Cameron thinks.

-

They sit in silence like that last time, and it's the same, but they all recognize the differences. Foreman is back where he started. Bitter. Cameron glances at him. Maybe not. But it's weighing him down.

Chase is in surgery, freed of those shackles in the diagnostic department. She's in the ER, free as well. No, they aren't. If there's anything that she's learned, it's that House does not let go. You do not let go of House.

They think they've come far away from those years, but they haven't. They're struggling to simply remove that mark that's been made. A brand. House branded them all.

Amber is dead.

That's the one that weighs the most, and not just on Foreman.

Foreman takes a drink, and keeps his glass up, like he wants to toast. "A year," he says.

"Since what?" Chase asks, even though he knows.

Cameron clinks her soda with Foreman's glass. "Cheers," she says, listlessly.

"Cheer up," Foreman says. "At least..."

_At least what?_ No one bothers finding out.

"Do you feel any different?" Cameron asks.

"Not really," Chase says. Her hair is brushing his arm. The blond strands are what remind him of the year gone by.

"Not at all," Foreman corrects. "So this is how it is."

"I guess," she says.

The silence falls.

Foreman is not surprised that they find him at the bar. It's where they go, it's where they've always gone, and it's where they'll continue to go, forever. He _is_ surprised that it's okay for them to be silent and sad together. He's surprised that they still have something to talk about, even after a year of separation.

"Hey," he says to Cameron and Chase, "thanks."

Cameron nods. Chase half-smiles. Foreman raises his glass in another toast.

To whatever he got out of this job. Pain. Anger. Skills. Friends. Death of a colleague. _Amber_.

He doesn't know why, but tonight it's enough. Every single bitter part of it.


End file.
